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A monograph, a treatise
by Kristine Ong Muslim
After the crash and that
sordid epilogue of dusk
and stalled car engines,
one of you will be sick
enough to notice how the
broken headlight glass
gleams silvery
underfoot. I am sure
that he will
turn away from the
glistening as the
reality
of death sinks in. There
is blood somewhere
in the scene. Someone
has to look for it.
Driving home, one of you
will understand that
even loneliness can be
perfected, that it can
congeal like the last
flicker of a bedside
night light
the moment the bulb gets
burned out. When he
turns on the car radio,
all the songs are blues.
And like what Terrance
Hayes forgets to say
about
the blues--how they
rattle between the
notes.
Textures sometimes have
depth. The landscape
outside the car is
twisted in certain
places
away from his grasp. And
there's nothing
out there, nothing here,
for one of you to carry.
What fear? What dream of
salvation? Nobody
has slept long enough to
really want those
things.
One of you will reach
home ahead of the
others.
And he will note that
it's almost midnight,
that all the sleeping
objects inside the house
wear their names around
their collars.
God must be reminded
where to put them
in case they die in
their sleep.
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